Nigel Tranter - The Steps to the Empty Throne

“It is good to see you—for much depends on you hereafter.”

Bruce looked doubtful at that, his glance searching past the other for Comyn.

Wallace perceived it.

“The Lord of Badenoch is not yet arrived,” he said.

“But he comes, he comes.”

“His coming here, like mine, is the least of it, Sir Guardian!

We shall never agree—that I swear.”

“Do not say so. If sufficient depends on it, any two men can seem to agree, however ill-matched. Even I have learned that lesson! Think you I have loved all that I have had to deal with, work with, this past year and more? And enough depends, here, on my soul! The future of this realm, no less.”

“Scarce so much as that, I think …”

“Yes. So much as that. See you, my lord—the magnates of this Scotland are divided. By many things, many feuds, much jealousy, warring interests. But, in the end, all depend on the Crown for their lands and titles. You know that. And the Crown is vacant—or nearly so. I act in the name of King John Baliol, since the Crown must be vested in some name. De jure, he is still King. De facto, he is not, and the throne empty. One day, if Scotland survives, she will have a king again. That king will be either a Baliol, a Comyn or a Bruce. You know it. John Baliol has a son, Edward—a child. Held, like his father, hostage by the King of England. King John has renounced the throne, for himself and his son, at the demand of King Edward. Renounced and abandoned. Therefore, it is scarce likely that John or his son shall ever reign. So the king shall be your father, the Bruce. Or John Comyn, Baliol’s nephew.”

Bruce made an impatient gesture, at this rehearsal of facts only too well known to him.

“Aye—you know it. All men know it, my lord. Therefore, since the nobles hold all they have of the Crown, they must take sides. For Comyn or Bruce. In order that they may retain their lands from the winner in this contest. Divided, as I say. And Scotland cannot afford a divided nobility, today, see you, when she fights for her life. So, your father being none knows where, only you, and Comyn, can heal the division. By acting together.

Joint Guardians. Nothing else, and no other, will serve.”

That was a long speech for Wallace, who was not notably a man of words.

Bruce could not refute the validity of any of it. But it was personality, not validity, that was his trouble.

“John Comyn will not work with me,” he said flatly.

“We have never agreed on any matter. Nor are like to!”

“But when the matter is the saving of the realm? For whoever may eventually sit on its throne? Can you not, at least, seem to agree, my lord ? Since neither of you, I vow, would wish the other to be Guardian alone!”

That left the younger man silent.

Lamberton had joined them.

“The Comyns have been sighted, my friends,” he said.

“They are riding down from Tweed. A great company of them. The Constable’s banner alongside that of Badenoch, they say. They have come far. From Spey. I do not think that they have come for nothing! John Comyn intends to be Guardian, I swear—whoever else may be!”

Bruce did not fail to take the point.

The Comyns arrived with a deal more circumstance than had the Bruce brothers, in splendid clothing and array, confident, assured, and with an indefinable appearance of prosperity and lack of tension, which contrasted notably with the demeanour of most of those assembled—for, of course, they came from the North, untouched by famine or war. The drawn, guarded, battered look which had become so much part of the others showed in them not at all. They had brought a train of over a score of knights, their own clerics, standard-bearers, pursuivants, trumpeters, entertainers, even a group of Erse-speaking, barbarously clad West Highland chiefs. There was no doubt that they had come prepared to take over the rule in Scotland.

It was their complete assurance, their unspoken but unmistakable

assumption or authority, which almost automatically forced Robert Bruce into a position from which there was no drawing back. At no specific moment did he make his decision. The thing was obvious, no longer to be debated.

John Comyn of Badenoch and he did not actually speak to each other for quite some time, after the arrival, eyeing each other warily, like a pair of stiff-legged dogs considering the same bone, by mutual consent keeping their distance—a metaphysical distance, not an actual one, for inevitably amongst the small circle of the high magnates of the realm, they could not avoid being in the same group frequently. Bruce was apt to find the Red Comyn’s brilliant, fleering eyes fixed on him—and realised that his own were drawn equally to the other. But neither went the length of words.

As closely as they watched each other, undoubtedly Wallace watched them both. Lamberton also. All there did, indeed; but these two in especial, and did more than watch. They manoeuvred, they guided, they tempered. And skilfully, their policy to ensure that Bruce and Comyn, or their supporters, did not come into any sort of clash before the thing could be brought to a conclusion. Wallace was less proficient at it than was the Bishop, perhaps.

As soon as it might be done with decency, the King of Arms had them all to sit down to a repast—and all his fussing about precedence was now seen in a new light. As far as the great ones were concerned, everything had been thought out. Normally, in any castle-hall, the dais-table stretched sideways across the head of the chamber, while the main table ran lengthwise down one side of the great apartment, leaving the rest free for the servitors, entertainers and the like. Now, since practically everyone present in Selkirk’s castle would have been entitled to sit at the dais-table, this had been brought down to add to the length of the other.

Moreover at its head, where the Guardian’s great chair was flanked by two others, two further small tables had been placed at right angles, with a couple of seats only at each. At that to the right was placed Buchan the Constable, with Lamberton the Primate at his side; on the left was seated James the Steward, with the herald King. There was no certainty as to which great office of state was senior; but Buchan was an earl and the Steward was not. In the same way, at the main table-head, Bruce was placed on Wallace’s immediate right, and Comyn on his left;

again there could be no quarrel, since Carrick was an earldom and Badenoch only a lordship. Other nobles found themselves equally heedfully disposed. There were no solid groups of pro Comyn or pro-Bruce supporters. And everywhere Lamberton’s clerics were set between, to act as both catalysts and buffers. The Scots lords, used to jockeying for the best places by initiative or sheer weight, were taken by surprise, and strategically seated where they could cause least trouble.

Bruce and Comyn thus were sitting in isolated prominence-but the mighty figure of Wallace was between them. Moreover, Bruce had Buchan sitting at the little table, next on his right, while Comyn had the Steward to contend with, on his left. Seldom can there have been less general converse at so illustriously attended a meal.

Wallace spoke to each of his immediate companions, and sometimes to them both, seeking to involve them in mutual talk which he might control. But they were a mettlesome pair to drive tandem, and it was a somewhat abortive exercise. The Guardianship issue was not actually mentioned.

“How long have we, think you, before Edward attacks once more?”

Wallace asked, presently—a safe subject, surely.

“How serious are his troubles with his lords?”

“Do not ask me, Sir Guardian,” Comyn returned quickly.

“I

have no dealings with the English. Ask Bruce. He knows Edward passing well. Or his friend Percy may have told him!”